


as free as in solitude, as gay as in company

by seventhstar



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Drama & Romance, In Medias Res, Minor Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino, Misunderstandings, Pining Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 02:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13649622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: [inspired by spookyfoot's jane eyre au]“Mr. Katsuki,” Viktor says. “Are you hurt?”“Me? No, I…I think not.” He rubs at his eyes and Viktor realizes, belatedly, that he is without his spectacles. He looks younger without them, softer, and oh, god, Viktor realizes belatedly, how frightening it must have been to wake in the midst of a fire and not be able to see it. His hands are red, and so are the tops of his feet.Viktor stares at Yuuri’s toes, curled down into the rug. It seems strange and otherworldly, Yuuri’s bare feet and ankles and calves, his ungloved hands, his mussed hair. How human he looks, how vulnerable, with none of the blank aloofness that makes Viktor feel out of place. His hands wanders up Viktor’s neck, curls into the loose hair hanging down over his ear.





	as free as in solitude, as gay as in company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookyfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [no net ensnares me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548996) by [spookyfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot). 



> spooky and i kept talking about variations on jane eyre aus and finally i lost my mind and wrote this. sorry.

Viktor thinks, at first, that a candle has been left burning. Then he awakens fully and realizes the smoke seeping into his room under the door is coming from the hallway. There must be a fire. Viktor’s heart drops down into his stomach.

_Yuuri._

He covers his face with a wet towel and rushes out into the hallway, where the smoke is thicker. Coughing, Viktor feels along the wall in the dark until he comes to a room where the flickering light of flames is visible beneath the door, casting an eerie light on the floor. _God only knows what lies behind it,_ Viktor thinks, and prays that it is not Yuuri’s bedchamber. He forces open the door.

The fire blinds him.

Then he blinks and sees—the burning candle upended on the floor, the lump under the covers unmoving—and flings himself at the bed.

“Wake up!” He shoves at Yuuri, who rolls over and tries to bury his face in the pillow. “There’s a fire—”

Yuuri jerks awake, eyes widened. Viktor hauls him from the bed and throws the water in the basin onto the fire, to no avail; it has spread across the floor and is licking at the bedclothes. Yuuri thrusts the quilt over the flames, and stomps on it, crying out as his bare feet touch the hot ground. Viktor joins him in the frantic attempt; he’s coughing, smoke in the air heavy in his lungs.

“Stop, stop, it’s out,” Yuuri gasps, hand over his mouth. “Here—” and he pushes Viktor back towards a chair.

Viktor falls into it, suddenly exhausted even as he fights the urge to grab Yuuri and check him bodily for any injury. If Viktor had slept more deeply, or come in a few minutes later, Yuuri might have burned in his bed. How careless of him, to have left the candle burning…if it was carelessness.

He shivers.

“You are cold,” Yuuri says. He is piling the scorched quilt by the door. “Wait a moment.” He abandons his task to go into his trunk, where he produces a heavy grey shawl. He draws it around Viktor’s shoulders, and perhaps it is wishful thinking on Viktor’s part, but his hands linger overlong on Viktor’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“You are sorry? What for?”

“I would offer you a coat, but mine will not fit you.”

“Mr. Katsuki,” Viktor says. “Are you hurt?”

“Me? No, I…I think not.” He rubs at his eyes and Viktor realizes, belatedly, that he is without his spectacles. He looks younger without them, softer, and oh, god, Viktor realizes belatedly, how frightening it must have been to wake in the midst of a fire and not be able to see it. His hands are red, and so are the tops of his feet.

Viktor stares at Yuuri’s toes, curled down into the rug. It seems strange and otherworldly, Yuuri’s bare feet and ankles and calves, his ungloved hands, his mussed hair. How human he looks, how vulnerable, with none of the blank aloofness that makes Viktor feel out of place. His hands wanders up Viktor’s neck, curls into the loose hair hanging down over his ear.

“Viktor…”

“Yuu—Mr. Katsuki…”

Yuuri pulls away, and this time Viktor does not think he is imagining his reluctance.

“You ought to return to bed.”

“I should not leave you.”

“I am fine. I can sleep in the adjoining room.”

“The adjoining—” Those would be the rooms meant for Yuuri’s future spouse. “Are they not shut up?”

Yuuri blushes. “I have had them cleaned…never mind. Go to bed.”

“If you insist,” Viktor murmurs. He does not want Yuuri to insist, unless Yuuri’s plan is to accompany Viktor upstairs and ravish him. He ducks his head, and Yuuri brushes over the top of his head with his fingertips. Viktor gets to his feet, which is more painful than he would like, and lets Yuuri push him by the elbow to the doorway. He has resigned himself to retreating, changing, and then slipping back down with some water so he will have an excuse when Yuuri’s grip on his arm tightens.

“Viktor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you for saving me,” Yuuri says.

What Viktor should do is express how pleased he is to be of use, in an understated and polite manner, as befits an employee speaking to his master. But Viktor’s tongue, loosened after months of insolence and no cause to check it, is blunter than it should be.

“Do you ever smile?”

“What?”

“Sometimes I wonder if anything ever moves you.”

Yuuri is like the ocean at night, all dark and impenetrable. For all that he pays Viktor the most particular attentions—sitting with him after dinner late into the night, listening to Viktor’s long-winded stories from Lowood, pressing upon him new books—Viktor still has no sense of whether Yuuri actually likes him. From anyone else, it would a foregone conclusion that something more than common friendship lay between them.

Even now, Yuuri can caress him in his bedroom and then immediately after express his gratitude in the same tone one might use to offer a guest more tea.

Yuuri is staring at him. He leans in, lashes fluttering, and for a moment Viktor thinks—

“Well, you really should rest, Yuri will—”

Viktor gives up and kisses him himself.

He breaks away at once, when Yuuri responds like a statue, his free hand limp at his side. His eyes are wide in the dark room; his cheeks are pink, lips parted. Viktor opens his mouth to apologize, but has no chance to get out the words.

Yuuri mutters a curse under his breath and then kisses him, pressing him against the wall, his arm behind Viktor’s neck. He kisses Viktor like a hungry man, like he’s trying to draw Viktor’s soul out of his body. Viktor digs his hands into Yuuri’s back, desperate, still half certain Yuuri will withdraw again the moment their lips part.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, finally, when Yuuri lets him go.

He knows immediately it’s the wrong thing, though heaven knows why Yuuri draws the line at this liberty when he has Viktor up against the wall, thighs against his thighs.

“…I had better attend to this mess,” Yuuri says. He takes a step back so that no part of them is touching.

Viktor is left in the hallway as the bedroom door is shut in his face.

The sensible thing would be to resign at once. But Viktor touches his mouth, lips tingling, and makes his way back to bed instead. Somewhere beneath those poor manners is a man Viktor rather likes; he’s not leaving until he uncovers him.

* * *

The weeks pass much as they did before. Yuuri does not mention the fire, and rebuffs Viktor’s questions regarding it. Their conversations on other topics are more robust. If at night, Viktor continues to hear odd moans and thumps, he tries to put it all out of his mind. Yuri’s lessons continue. He has shown an interest in the wildlife native to the area, and Viktor takes him on expeditions outside where they identify species. On his days off, Viktor sketches, and walks, and pines.

Something must happen, and one evening in the drawing room, something does.

Viktor is engrossed in a novel—Yuuri has brought him another one—when Yuuri puts down his own book and breaks the silence.

“I am to have a house party.”

“Soon?”

“Next week.”

“How nice.”

“If you wish to join us,” Yuuri says, “that is, I would like it if you dined with us, and joined us in the drawing room afterward. Or even during the day.”

“I am sure your guests would prefer I didn’t.”

“No, no, you must. It will be good for you to have company.”

Viktor is pleased that Yuuri has thought this much about him; it does sometimes wear on him to be alone when Yuuri is away. Surely Yuuri would not invite him if he thought his guests were too snobbish to bear his presence. Yuuri certainly pays no attention to the distinction between classes, except when he is kissing Viktor and then slamming doors in his face.

His wardrobe is not adequate for a formal event, so Viktor spends an afternoon in town carefully buying what fabric he can afford, and using it to refresh his best set of clothes. Thornfield Hall is likewise shined and aired out and polished, and when the carriages roll up to the door, Viktor stands behind Yuri and peers out at the rich pouring out onto the front lawn.

“Why does he need so many guests?” Yuri asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Perhaps he longs for adult company.”

“He has _you.”_

Viktor looks determinedly out the window to hide his blush.

That evening, after Yuri has been sent to bed early and Viktor has endured another hour of ghostly creaking from the floor above, he dresses with more care than usual. Coat pressed, cravat starched, Viktor pins his hair up behind his head and descends the stairs to dinner. The footman at the base of the steps, Andrew, winks at him.

The rest of the guests are seating themselves; there are placecards, and Viktor finds his own. Unfortunately he is not seated with Yuuri, but between what he thinks is a married couple, Michele and Sara Crispino. In addition to those two, there are three others: a dark young man with sharp brows, a red-haired woman, and—

“Chris!”

“Viktor! I thought perhaps you’d been murdered.”

“I was about to say the same to you.”

Chris laughs. His hair has been cropped short, and he’s gone from gawky to muscular. Clearly army life has agreed with him.

“I’ve sold out. But you can still address me as Colonel Giacometti.”

“I won’t,” Viktor says. “When did you return to England? You haven’t written.”

“I tried, but no one at Lowood seemed to have your new address.”

Viktor frowns. As loathe as he is to admit it, it is entirely possible he neglected to pass it to anyone. Well, no matter, Chris will have it now. They can correspond.

“Excuse me,” the man to Viktor’s right—Mr. Crispino, presumably—says with a sneer. “But who are you?”

“Viktor Nikiforov.” Viktor braces himself. “I am Yuri’s tutor.”

Mr. Crispino stares at him. Viktor wonders what he is about, but says nothing; if he is a snob, Viktor cannot please him, and if he has some other reason for disapproval, the presence of other guests will force him to hold his tongue. Viktor turns to the lady beside him, whose eyes are purple, and offers a polite smile.

“Mrs. Crispino.”

“Miss!” Mr. Crispino snaps. “My sister is unmarried.”

“Excuse me. Miss Crispino. It is a pleasure.”

“It’s always nice to meet new people.”

“Sara, don’t speak to this vulture!”

“Mickey!”

“I apologize for my tardiness,” Yuuri says as he steps into the room. He is wearing dark blue and looks exceptionally handsome; Viktor tries and fails to avoid staring at him. He takes his seat at the head of the table and gestures. Dinner is immediately served.

What follows is not the worst dinner Viktor has ever had, but only because he doesn’t spend it being beaten with a stick instead of eating. Mr. Crispino’s poor manners are less painful than a thorough education, but only just. And Yuuri’s expression with every snipe, as if he is the one being insulted, is worst of all. Viktor has gleaned from the servant’s conversation that Yuuri has been solitary over the past few years, with few guests and no large parties at all. He can imagine it took some nerve to invite so many, and he despises Mr. Crispino for making him uncomfortable in his own house.

When the time comes for them to leave the drawing room for coffee, Viktor is relieved, if only because he can sit somewhere else. They file out of the dining room in pairs, Viktor trailing unescorted behind the other six. The seat he prefers is open, and he moves to claim it.

“You don’t expect us to spend the entire evening with the help,” Mr. Crispino says incredulously. “I will not subject my sister to—”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Mickey, don’t make a cake of yourself,” Mr. Chulanont says. Mr. Chulanont is Yuuri’s friend from school, and the only one of the party who has been invited to Thornfield before. He is sharp-witted, but not unkind, and in trade, which speaks well to Yuuri’s character.

“Excuse me,” Viktor says. He rises. “I ought to retire. Enjoy your evening.”

Yuuri follows him out.

“Viktor, wait,” he says. “You do not have to leave. Mr. Crispino is…well, it is complicated.”

“Is he always so rude?”

“No. No, he was not invited,” Yuuri says. “But his sister was, and he read one of her letters and discovered she…well, he did not want her coming alone, so Sara asked that I let him come along.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“I’m sorry…”

Viktor pats him on the arm. “It’s not your fault he cannot behave. If he had gone to school with me he would have been locked in the closet until he learned to behave.”

“He…what?”

“Good night.”

* * *

The contents of the mysterious letter that has Mr. Crispino so irritable occupies much of Viktor’s thoughts over the next few days. He attends to Yuri during the day, and endures the dinners in the evenings. Chris is a welcome companion, and they recall stories from their past and trade gossip about their former classmates. Phichit and Sara are intelligent and sensible conversationalists. Mila, a fellow Russian, is a welcome relief. Mr. Crispino continues to be beyond the pale in his rudeness, but Viktor ignores him in the hopes that lack of response will dismay him, or at least ease Yuuri’s worries.

What could drive a man, already overprotective of his sister, to behave so poorly? What could the letter have said? Viktor cannot imagine they would have come to Thornfield if there was some threat to Sara’s person. A love letter seems most likely. Perhaps he discovered she had a paramour and sought to remove her from them.

The party is meant to last three weeks, and two of them pass without incident. The thumping over Viktor’s head grows louder and louder. Over dinner Yuuri praises Viktor’s good sense and teaching, and the conversation devolves into one about pedagogy for a full half hour, and Viktor goes to bed thinking he has not enjoyed himself so well since those perfect seconds Yuuri spent kissing him.

He wakes too early, before the sun has begun to kiss the horizon. His head aches. Viktor slips from the bed and goes to the window, out of which he leans, letting the cool air brush his face.

There are voice below.

Frowning, Viktor looks down for the source and sees two figures in the gardens, alone. A midnight tryst? His bet would be on Phichit and Chris, but no, one of them has long, dark hair. Sara, then. And in front of her is…

“Yuuri?”

Of course Yuuri cannot hear him below. He is holding both Sara’s hands as they speak. Abruptly, she embraces him tightly.

Viktor wrenches the shutters closed.

So that is why Michele Crispino did not want his sister coming. No wonder he despises Viktor; Viktor is a threat to the marriage between Yuuri and Sara.

He doesn’t realize that the warmth on his cheeks is from his tears. Viktor learned not to cry at Lowood, where weeping was considered a fault that required correction. Until he came to Thrnfield, he’d never let himself just be.

He’ll have to find a new position. Viktor wants to flee the house that instant, but he sees sense: at the very least he will need to collect his wages. He lies back down to rest, but sleep does not come, and nightmarish visions of Yuuri’s wedding flash before his eyes.

It takes a long and painful effort to restrain himself until a reasonable hour. Then Viktor dresses as severely as possible and presents himself in Yuuri’s study. But Yuuri is not there. Further inquiry reveals that he is gone to town on an emergency, and that Michele Crispino is in an uproar because his sister is ill and has barred him from her chambers, and her maid will not disobey her and open them.

Viktor feels sick. He can guess the reason for the maid’s intractable obedience. She’s gone. They’re eloping.

He wants, again, to immediately leave. But as he climbs the stairs to retrieve his bag, the housekeeper waylays him and begs his help; someone must calm Mr. Crispino and help keep the house in line until Yuuri returns. He can hardly refuse to help her, and so he runs back and forth between her and Yuri the rest of the day.

Scotland is not far. _Yuuri might return tomorrow,_ he thinks as he sinks into bed with weary eyes. _I will have to leave at first light if I mean to avoid him._

So when dawn touches the night sky, Viktor dons his worn coat and scarf, shoulders his bag, and leaves the house by the front door, where there is no one. The cold nips at his ears as he crosses the lawn and into the forest. It is only three miles to Millcote. From there he will catch the post to town, and from there he will seek a new situation of some kind.

It occurs to Viktor, as he walks through the dewy grass, that he might have asked Chris for help, but he disregards the thought. Viktor has never asked anyone for help, not when he was locked in the closet at Lowood, not when it was learn five pages of Latin or be beaten, not during the typhus epidemic when he nursed his classmates all night long. Besides, he would have to admit to Chris the truth, that he believed Yuuri cared, and Viktor cannot bear to speak the words aloud and give them any more power.

He wishes he had a father, or a mother, or some relation he could rely on. He thinks wistfully of Yakov Feltsman, the uncle who came looking for him so many years ago; the epidemic had kept him out, and though Viktor had prayed for his return, it never came to pass. He went abroad instead. Viktor still has a dim memory of his parents having Yakov over to dine. Yakov had looked stern, but he’d given Viktor candy.

 _So much foolish dreaming,_ Viktor thinks. _That’s how all this began, because I dreamed of more than Lowood. If I had stayed there…_

His heart rebels against the very idea. A world without Yuuri, even the Yuuri that never loved him, seems a pale shadow of the one that is.

“Viktor!”

 _Am I so melancholy I have begun imagining things?_ Viktor walks faster, as if the noise of the forest crunching beneath his feet can drown out the memories in his mind.

“Viktor!”

There are footsteps behind him now. Viktor turns.

It’s Yuuri, chasing him up the path, spectacles askew.

“Where are you going?” Yuuri asks as he closes the distance. A few feet away, he stops and bends over, gasping.

Viktor starts walking again, hoping to outpace him. “Millcote.”

“Now? There won’t be mail until this afternoon. I’ll escort you.”

Yuuri takes up a place at Viktor’s side; he eyes Viktor’s bag. Viktor says nothing. He will not degrade himself by begging for an explanation. His dignity is all he has, and he is loathe to relinquish it.

“You ought to be careful walking out alone.”

“Oh? Do you imagine I might be in danger here?”

“Perhaps.” Yuuri smiles at him tenderly. “Someone might think you were a woodland fairy, and steal you away.”

Only a lifetime of discipline keeps Viktor from hitting Yuuri with his bag. Instead he walks even faster, nearly at a run, to show Yuuri how unmoved he is by his deceitful blandishments.

“Viktor—wait—”

“You shameless cabbage of a man! Stop following me!”

“What? I don’t understand—Viktor—why are you running away?”

Yuuri keeps pace with him easily, and he reaches for Viktor’s wrist. Viktor slaps his hand away and whirls around, only to have Yuuri crash into him and knock them both down into the grass. Yuuri is warm, and smells like amber, and Viktor has a visceral desire both to slap him soundly and to throw himself into Yuuri’s embrace.

“Why are you leaving?”

“Why am I leaving? Do you honestly believe that I would degrade myself by remaining? Do you honestly think I would lower myself to that?”

“I…oh.” Yuuri flinches. “I thought…” He swallows heavily. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”

“As you should be.”

“There’s no need for you to walk,” Yuuri says. “Or even for you to leave, if you want to stay. I won’t impose myself on you—”

“You unfeeling wretch,” Viktor says. “Let go of me. I saw you.”

“You saw me?”

“With her. I saw you, I know very well that you have deceived me.”

“Wait, is that why are you are angry? That is the only reason?”

“My god, Yuuri, is that not enough?”

Yuuri does the most infuriating thing yet. He laughs. Viktor starts to get up, ignoring the hand Yuuri holds out to assist him, and brushes the dirt off of his clothes. His hair has fallen down in the scuffle, and he pushes a strand out of his eyes.

“It’s Mila.”

“You’re married to Mila?”

“Sara is married to Mila. That is why she came, to have the wedding here in secret, but since Michele invited himself along, she had to go to Scotland.” Yuuri reaches for him. “I only went to stand up with Sara, because she had no one. I never—we were only meeting to arrange the details.”

“But I…”

“How could you think I cared for her?”

“How could I not think it? Your inclination for me has never been consistent.” The bag is digging uncomfortably into Viktor’s shoulder, but he dares not release it. He has the sense that if he yields on this one point, he will end up back at Thornfield before he knows it.

“I would never wish for you to leave me. I would always have you with me, as my friend, as my partner, as my…” Yuuri meets Viktor’s eyes. “As my beloved.”

“Are you saying, then, that I should refrain from seeking a new position?”

“I am saying that you ought to take up a more permanent one.”

Yuuri produces a little black jeweler’s box from inside his coat. Viktor notices for the first time the dust of the road on his clothes, as if he came straight from Scotland to Viktor’s side. Perhaps he went to Viktor’s rooms, saw his missing things, and chased him down. How lovely that would be, to be wanted.

Inside the box are two gold bands, gleaming rich gold.

“My parents’,” Yuuri says quietly. He holds out a bare hand. Viktor takes it.

The ring fits on Viktor’s hand like it was forged there; the metal is cold. Yuuri traces over it with his thumb with an expression of acute longing. He keeps hold of Viktor’s hand in his own long after the ring is placed, staring at Viktor like all the stars are in his eyes.

Viktor shivers. How strange. He’s imagined this so romantically, with moonlight and candles and music. Yet the reality is perfect, too, Yuuri’s windswept hair and tired eyes as he clutches Viktor’s finger, only a few feet away from the place they first met.

“And the attic?”

“What?”

“The noise in the attic you insist are nothing. What is up there? Have you a secret wife you have walled up there? Dead bodies?”

“It’s a ballet studio,” Yuuri says helplessly. “I had lessons as a child, but gentleman do not…”

“I did too, you know.”

“Really?”

“I had a teacher at school, Lilia Baranovskaya, who taught us all. She left though, to marry a merchant somewhere. And she left, I…”

“…decided to seek your fortune elsewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Yuuri says fiercely. “Because now you are here with me.”

* * *

And then they were married.

In the end, Yuuri confessed to Viktor that all his reticence came from a betrayal in his youth, by Yuri’s mother; when she passed, she left him in her care, and though Yuuri had nothing but regret for his involvement with the lady, he could not forsake the boy. This sad tale did much to soften Viktor’s remaining anger, especially when Yuuri assured him that his mistrust was not in Viktor’s fidelity but in his own heart.

Yakov found Viktor, in the end; he was the man who had married Lilia, and when he learned his nephew still lived sought him out at once to rectify a lifetime’s neglect. Having found him well-settled with a loving husband and a pack of poodles, they bestowed their largesse on Yuri instead. They agreed to provide him with an education in town, and as a grown man he did his family credit in almost every way—though he maintained both his unfashionable Russian accent and his abrasive manner, both of which he attributed to Viktor’s teaching.

Thornfield Hall was much livelier with newlyweds to make love to each other in its halls, and between the manor and their house in town, the two of them had enough company to suit Viktor and enough solitude to suit Yuuri. When the nights were long, they crept up into the attic and danced until the sun rose.

It was not quite what Viktor had expected, when he applied for the position on that grey and melancholy afternoon, but all in all he never had any cause to repine.

**Author's Note:**

> lol jk i am sorry for nothing


End file.
